


Caretaker

by clockworkmargaret (morganya)



Category: The Mighty Boosh (TV)
Genre: M/M, Sickfic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-08
Updated: 2018-05-08
Packaged: 2019-05-03 22:26:36
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,500
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14578956
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/morganya/pseuds/clockworkmargaret
Summary: Howard pushes himself too hard and suffers the consequences. Vince does what he's good at.





	Caretaker

It all kicked off when Naboo had to temporarily shut the shop down because of an infestation of pixies. At least Naboo said they were pixies. All Vince and Howard had seen were furry brown winged things whizzing about, shouting, "Hooty, hooty." Naboo cordoned off the shop until he and Bollo could rehome them.

Vince was saved having to cast about for something to do while the shop was closed by his friend Cosmonaut calling him and telling him about the semi-monthly Party or Wotever. Apparently all of Camden was going to be there, and Vince didn't want to miss a chance to pick up some new finery and then wow the crowd.

He thought he could get Howard along to carry his shopping – he wasn't going to risk his reputation by exposing Howard to Camden nightlife but his broad Northern shoulders made him the ideal pack horse. But when he came up to give Howard the genius news, Howard was already on the phone.

"Right. Next week? Don't you worry, Lester. Howard Moon's about to pull some magic out of his sack of tricks. Ooh, chica-chica!" Howard hung up. "Vince! Great news!"

"Yeah," Vince agreed. "It's Party or Wotever time! I'm just about to start planning my outfit!"

Howard looked confused. "What? No. The Rusty Bathtub Combo is coming over from New York."

"And I should care because?"

Howard drew himself up to his full height. "The Rusty Bathtub Combo is the foremost avant garde jazz fusion collective in probably the world. They even made the cover of Da Da Man magazine, which tells you something right there."

"That there's a magazine that ten people read?"

"You're a Philistine, Vince. Always have been, always will be."

"So the Broken Toilet Trio's coming over," Vince said, quickly, to prevent Howard from going into scat singing. "Why do you care?"

"I'll have you know," Howard said, "that Lester is an old friend of the Rusty Bathtub, and he wants me to come by and meet them. I just need to throw together a recording of classic Moon jazz-funk and then, after I've wowed them all, we'll have a jam session. I'm about to write the next chapter of my life, Vince. You should be proud to witness this."

"New chapter in your life? I need to go stand in Lester's smelly old shop and watch you diddling around with the Greywater Six and hope that my toes don't get all big from the jazz, and that's a new chapter?"

Howard blinked. "I'm not asking you to stand around Lester's shop. This is my thing."

"What?" Vince squawked incredulously. "You want to risk your health hanging around with a bunch of dusty old jazzers by yourself? You need a bit of life, bit of color. Bit of me."

"You can't be around jazz for more than two minutes without puffing up," Howard said. "I'm not going to ruin what could be my shot at jazz legend status by having you around distracting me. I'm ready for the big time, Vince."

"As if you'll ever be big time," Vince said. "The most you'll ever get is a shiny placque with your name and 'Most Useless Man Alive' written under it. Ridiculous. _I'm_ going to go to the Party or Wotever, without you, and I'll have a genius night and you'll be sorry I didn't invite you when I'm the toast of the town."

"You're the king of tiny ambitions," Howard sneered. "Riding around with tinsel on your shoulders and not a thought in your head. I'm wasting valuable composing time even standing here." He stalked out of the room and slammed his bedroom door shut behind him.

*****

Thinking about why he and Howard found it so easy to be cruel to each other these days confused him and made him feel a bit strange, so he drowned the thoughts out with shopping. He found a pair of shantung silk pajamas in a secondhand shop in Knightsbridge, which wouldn't do for going out but would be nice for long Sunday lie-ins. He was planning a mix of vintage and homemade for the Party or Wotever, but he hadn't decided if he was going to go for the Space Courtesan look or the Parisian Cowboy look or something else entirely.

When he got back to the flat he could hear faint keyboard noodling from Howard's room. He supposed he should be grateful that Howard kept his jazz in the bedroom where it belonged. He glared at the closed door. If Howard thought he cared that Howard wanted to spend all his time impressing a bunch of stupid jazz people that no one had ever heard of instead of spending time with Vince, he was so wrong. Vince wasn't even going to go ask how he was getting on or make Howard a cup of tea, that's how much Vince didn't care.

When he fell asleep that night, the keyboard music had been replaced by a saxophone. He hadn't even known Howard had a saxophone. Vince pulled the pillow around his ears to drown the jazz out.

He woke up late, but the jazz was still going on. It sounded like Howard had added bass guitar to the mix now. Vince groaned and staggered into the kitchen for tea.

When the bass guitar stopped Vince hoped that he could have a nice quiet bowl of cereal, but then Howard came out with a look that said he wasn't planning on stopping for long. He hadn't shaved and there were dark circles under his eyes.

"Not going well then?" Vince said spitefully. He probably should have kept quiet, but he wasn't looking forward to days of plugging his ears to block the jazz.

Howard glared at him. "Genius doesn't just happen, Vince. I put blood, sweat and tears into my music."

"Pretty sure the audience is the one bleeding and crying."

"I don't expect you to understand." Howard coughed and cleared his throat. "I'm about to do something no one in the history of music has ever attempted. They expect a C major, I throw in a G octatonic. Maverick!"

"You didn't go to sleep last night, did you?"

"No." Howard picked up Vince's box of Rice Krispies and started to put his hand into the box. Then he changed his mind and put it back in the cupboard.

"You're all twisted up like a Flump. You need to chill out. I've got a massive party coming up, and I'm just letting the fashion winds point me where to go. I'm going to go and have a massive night and I'm not even bothered."

"Yeah, well, you and I are different, Vince. Inspiration is a cruel bitch. I need to battle it. They call me the Inspiration Battler. I'm on the cusp of victory right now, Vince. I've got to get back to work." He coughed and stomped off back to his room. Vince decided to pick up earmuffs the next time he went out.

*****

He didn't see Howard for a few days. The only indication that he was even alive was the increasingly manic and atonal sound coming from the bedroom. Vince had almost got used to it. He could even hang out around the flat without beginning to swell up.

He had finally decided on the Parisian Cowboy look for the Party or Wotever, and he'd gathered enough fabrics and vintage bits to actually start making the outfit. He hurried home from the Tube, looking forward to preparing some templates before he started sewing.

When he walked up the stairs into the flat, all he heard was metal clanking in the kitchen. Puzzled, Vince dropped his bags and went to investigate. Howard was bent over the sink, holding a Dictaphone in one hand and banging the hell out of the sink with a spoon with the other. His mustache was in the process of turning into a full beard and there were wild brown curls hanging in his face. He showed absolutely no awareness that Vince was there.

The phone on the table rang, and Howard cursed. He dropped the Dictaphone and grabbed at the phone. " _Yes_ , Lester. I know when I need to be there. No, it's _not_ ready!" He slammed the phone down and resumed banging at the sink.

"What're you doing?" Vince said.

Howard yelped and whirled around. As soon as he made eye contact with Vince, he coughed nervously into his sleeve and arranged himself into an attempt at a relaxed posture. "All right, Vince. Cup of tea?"

"You're spooning the sink," Vince said. 

"I need new tones!" Howard said wildly. "I've tried every chord progression in the universe with every possible instrument and it still isn't working! Now I've got to unlock the sonic potentials of cutlery!"

" _Calm down_ ," Vince said. He looked at Howard more closely. "You look awful."

Howard ignored him. He was pale enough that Vince could count every freckle on his face, and the edges of his nose were pink and sore-looking. His tiny eyes were bloodshot and sunk into dark grey shadows. "Thought I'd try forks next. I'll toss a load of them into the tub and surely that'll to amount to something."

"Howard. Sit down."

Howard glared at his spoon and then sank down at the kitchen table. "I've got a splitting headache."

"Stop smashing up against the jazz wall and maybe it'll go away. Why don't you just go in and impro something for the Farty Bottom Seven? Throw some scat at them and make a stupid face and they'll be happy."

"You don't know jazz musicians. They can smell failure. I promised innovation and I need to deliver."

"Maybe you can distract them. Maybe with the right rollneck –"

"Haaaat _chooo_!" The sneeze rocketed Howard forward in his chair, his head snapping back, and left him dazed and sniffling.

"That was quite a sneeze."

"Snuck up on me," Howard mumbled. He fumbled in his pocket for a handkerchief and started to blow his nose, only to sneeze again. And again. And again.

"This is why you're ill," Vince said, when Howard finally managed to blow his nose after throwing in a fifth sneeze for good measure. "You've been splashing around in gross jazz juice for days and now it's trying to kill you. Go to bed."

"I just need a few more hours," Howard said. "You worry about your silly party and let me work my magic here."

"I'm seeing more snot than I am magic at the moment."

"Same difference." Howard heaved himself up and went back towards his room. Vince could hear another volley of sneezes bouncing off the walls.

*****

If possible, he saw even less of Howard after that. Occasionally Vince heard him coughing; more often the flat was filled with what sounded like every past and present member of Weather Report strangling a warren of rabbits. Vince finally retreated to the relative safety of the Dalston town center, where he sat by himself and made costume sketches of the Parisian Cowboy.

He was pondering beret or cowboy hat when his phone went off. Vince answered it without taking his eyes off the paper. "Awright?"

"Howdy, Vince!" Lester's gravelly, cheery voice said.

Vince sighed. "Awright, Lester."

"Say, Vince, is Howard there with you? He's not answering his phone, and I got a little news to lay on him."

"No, he's not here," Vince said. "Wait. You're blind. How can you dial a phone?"

"I taste the numbers with my tongue!" Lester informed him. "Or sometimes I just use voice recognition. But between you and me, tasting's more fun."

"What's the message, Lester?"

"Well, I don't know why he didn't show up to play with the Rusty Bathtub Combo, but you should tell him not to worry. Someone heard the ruckus from the street and came in, and he impressed the Bathtub so much that they hired him to join the group on the spot! His name was Bob something. I don't know who he is, but he sounded mighty handsome."

"Oh, Christ," Vince muttered. His thought was that Howard was going to be impossible to live with once Vince told him the news. There was a small, ugly voice in Vince's head saying that it was just as well Howard hadn't gone and left Vince behind so he could chase another stupid pipe dream.

Then he wondered why it was that Howard would miss the meeting when he'd been killing himself for days preparing for it. Given the way their lives often went, it wasn't out of the question that he'd been kidnapped, or put under a spell, or that he'd got trapped under something. Vince would have to hurry home and check.

"Vince?" Lester said. "Vince? You still there?"

"Yeah, Lester," Vince said. "I'll let him know. Hey, in the event Howard's gotten himself into some kind of jazz crisis, can I give you a call?"

"You don't get to be as old as I am without knowing how to get out of a jazz crisis!" Lester said. "Why, I remember this time when Thelonious Monk lost his hat on the Brooklyn Bridge –"

"Yeah, thanks, Lester," Vince said and hung up.

He fought through late evening traffic to get back to the flat. He took the stairs two at a time and dropped his sketch pad by the landing, calling, "Howard?" He was planning on a thorough search of the flat, but then he saw the back of Howard's head on the sofa in the front room. For a moment, he breathed a sigh of relief, until he came closer.

Howard looked even worse than the last time Vince had seen him. There were flushed, feverish streaks across his cheekbones and his breathing sounded like it was coming through layers of wet fabric. He was fast asleep, sitting up, a forgotten accordion by his twitching fingers.

"Howard," Vince said. "Howard." He touched Howard's shoulder.

Howard came to with a jerk. "It's almost done, I promise!"

"It's me, you idiot," Vince said. He put the back of his hand to Howard's forehead. He was much too hot. "And you're ill."

Howard looked around. "Vince? Am I still in the flat? What time is it?"

"It's time for bed."

"I've got to get to Lester's," Howard said, and began coughing painfully. "I can still make it…I've got to prove that I…"

At the moment, lying seemed Vince's best option. "Look, why don't I call Lester and ask if the whoever-they-are can wait for a day or two? You can get some sleep and go meet them later."

"They won't stay."

"They've got visas, don't they? You've got plenty of time."

"I don't have – I…" Howard winced and rubbed his chest. He looked miserably at Vince. "I don't feel very well."

"I never would have guessed." Vince picked up the accordion and put it aside. "Go to bed. And keep away from jazz."

"I'm going to bed," Howard announced, like he had just thought of it. He staggered to his feet and wove down the hall to his bedroom. Vince sighed.

*****

Vince wasn't sure what time it was when he woke up, but it was still dark out. He couldn't pinpoint why he'd woken, other than a general feeling of uneasiness, but he thought he'd go make a sweep of the flat just in case, maybe look into Howard's room while he was at it. He didn't bother with the kimono or slippers, just headed out into the hallway.

There was a broad-shouldered shadow huddled against the wall of the hallway, trying to make itself as small as possible. Vince knew who it was before his eyes had even adjusted, but he still said, "Howard?"

Howard couldn't even make eye contact with him. He was wearing one of his old shirts – some weird orange rollneck that had seen better days – and his white pajama pants, barefoot and shivering. "All right, Vince."

"What're you doing?"

"I'm fine. I was thirsty. I'm just getting tea."

"So why are you on the floor then?"

Howard looked at his feet. "No special reason. I've had good times with this floor. I thought we could get to know each other better."

"Howard."

"…I got dizzy," Howard told his feet.

Something went cold in Vince's stomach. He might not know a lot about illness, or most other things, really, but he was pretty sure this wasn't supposed to happen.

It wouldn't do Howard any good if he saw Vince getting scared, though, so he plunged right ahead. "All right, come into the front room and I'll get things sorted."

"I can do it myself," Howard protested as Vince hauled him to his feet. He was lying; he could barely walk and Vince could feel him shivering. "It's _late_ , Vince. You ought to be in bed."

"Look who's talking." Vince maneuvered both of them into the front room and got Howard on the sofa. "Still want tea?"

Howard sneezed. "I don't need to be _babied_ ," he said and wiped his nose on his sleeve.

"You're getting tea. And use a hankie, you're flooding the place," Vince said and went to put the kettle on.

He could hear Howard coughing and sneezing as the kettle boiled. He searched all over his brain for memories about dealing with sick people, but all that he could remember from his childhood was that some of the berries in the forest weren't good to eat and Bryan's home remedies were all martini-based. The memories of the times when he'd gotten colds or flu as a grownup mainly involved Howard grumbling that he was far too important to be a nursemaid, usually at the same time he was fluffing Vince's pillows or making the soup Vince liked or stroking Vince's hair so he could fall asleep.

That was all Vince had to go on. Hopefully it was enough. He made himself a tea as well, because why not, and went back into the front room.

Howard was huddled up on the sofa, looking like the only thing keeping him upright was sheer will. "Come on then," Vince said, and handed him the mug.

"Thanks," Howard said faintly. His hands were shaking. The tea sloshed alarmingly against the side of the mug.

"You're going to burn yourself," Vince said, and caught his hand. "Here."

Howard glared at him. It would have been intimidating if he didn't look so pathetic. "I can drink my own fucking tea."

"From where I'm sitting, no, you can't." Vince closed his hand around Howard's and steadied it. Howard scowled but let Vince guide the mug to his mouth, tilting it carefully so he could drink.

"You should sleep here tonight," Vince said. "I don't think either of us can manage the walk back to your room." He let Howard swallow the last few drops before taking the mug away. "Lie down."

Howard couldn't even muster a token show of protest. With a soft moan of defeat, he slid down the sofa and curled up on his side. Vince went to look for blankets.

He found one of Howard's ugly fuzzy blankets, one of the grey synthetic fleece ones, and brought it back out. He was glad he had; he could hear Howard's teeth chattering from down the hall. He put the blanket over Howard and settled back down, positioning his lap so that it was indistinguishable from a pillow.

The 'Don't Touch Me' rule was apparently suspended, because Howard put his head in Vince's lap without a peep. Vince brushed the sweaty hair away from his too-hot forehead.

"I'll get Naboo to take a look at you tomorrow."

"'S only flu," Howard mumbled.

"It might be some mutant alien flu that only a doctor can cure. Naboo's a kind of doctor. Witch doctors are still doctors, aren't they?"

"You're a wrong little man," Howard said. "You need to go somewhere safe. I don't want you to catch this."

"I don't take orders from the mutant flu."

"It's regular flu," Howard said, already mostly asleep. Vince had his doubts.

*****

He called Naboo and Bollo away from the Great Pixie Rehousing Project to gather around the sofa the next morning. Howard hadn't moved from under the blanket.

Bollo looked on while Naboo scanned the visible parts of Howard. Vince chewed on his index finger and waited for Naboo to fix things. Howard's cheek was pressed against his thigh and his breathing was raspy.

"Well?" Vince said when Naboo straightened up and looked like he was about to come to a decision.

"It's flu," Naboo said.

"Mutant alien flu?"

"No, just regular flu."

"Well, can't you cure it? Dip him in elk's blood or do some sort of shaman juju on him?"

"No," Naboo said.

"Unbelievable."

"Maybe he die," Bollo said hopefully.

"Thanks very much," Howard said from Vince's lap.

"Come on, Naboo," Vince said. "Look at him. He's got a fever."

Something that Vince assumed was a pixie popped out of Naboo's robes and hurtled down to rest in the crook of Howard's arm. It chittered, showing rows of sharp white teeth in its brown furry face, and settled in. Howard poked it.

"I'm afraid we have pixies to deal with," Naboo said. "They're everywhere downstairs. Dealing with housing regulations has been a nightmare."

Bollo scooped the pixie up from its napping spot by Howard. " _Hooty_!" it shrieked indignantly, and tried to bite. Vince sighed in resignation.

"Don't let him get too hot or too cold," Naboo said. "Give him paracetamol and loads of things to drink. If everything else fails, there's always A&E. Don't worry. He'll be fine."

"I _know_ that," Vince snapped. Howard had gone back to sleep and didn't say anything.

*****

"When's your party?" Howard asked, as Vince was pouring another liter of Ribena down his throat. "Are you going to have enough time to get ready?"

"It's later," Vince said absently. He hadn't actually thought much about the Party or Wotever ever since he'd decided that he wasn't going unless Howard made a sudden speedy recovery.

Howard would protest the decision, Vince knew, which was why he was keeping quiet about it. For all the stick Howard gave him about his Camden mates, he always let Vince follow whatever trend or group happened to strike his fancy for as long as it lasted. Knowing that Vince had willingly passed up opportunity would kick his paranoia into overdrive.

It wasn't even about Howard so much. If given the chance, Howard would just curl up in the corner like a hurt animal and stay there until he either got better or died, leaving Vince to his own devices. It was just that Howard being ill made Vince feel weird. He didn't want to eat, which was unsettling in itself; Howard loved food, maybe a little too much. Shuffling from the couch to the toilet and back again left him ashen and shuddering. He let Vince watch whatever he wanted on television without sniping about Vince's taste in entertainment. It was weird and confusing and Vince was pretty sure that if he left Howard alone just so he could go to the Party or Wotever something horrible would happen. Vince couldn't make soup or fluff pillows or do proper grownup things like Howard could, but the one thing he was good at was staying with Howard.

Really, his choice was to go to the party and have about fifteen minutes of attention, after which everyone would stand around trying to out-cool each other, which wasn't actually very much fun, or stay home and watch cartoons with Howard curled up quietly in his lap. All in all, he'd rather have the cartoons.

*****

Vince had fallen asleep on the sofa; he woke up with a crick in his neck and Howard sitting up beside him, chatting away. "What time is it?" Vince asked.

Howard gave him a puzzled look. "All right, Vince. Why aren't you wearing your uniform?"

Vince rubbed his eyes. "What uniform?"

"I don't think it matters, anyway," Howard continued. "Have you got Reptiles today? Or Small Mammals?"

"Howard," Vince said carefully. Howard's eyes had a glazed, unseeing look that Vince didn't like at all.

"I think Techno Mouse got out again," Howard said. "He's banging away at the inside of my head. I don't know what he thinks he's doing."

"Right," Vince said, and put his hand on Howard's forehead. He was burning up. "Stay here for a minute."

"I can't go anywhere," Howard said. "The zoo will fall apart without us, Vince. Tell Techno Mouse to turn his music down, my head's killing me."

"I'll get right on that," Vince said, and got up, ignoring the voice in his head repeating _A &E, A&E, A&E_. He went into the kitchen and ran cold water over one of the clean dish towels, grabbed the paracetamol and some Lucozade and went back to the front room, where Howard was having what sounded like a very intense conversation with an invisible Dixon Bainbridge.

"Here," Vince interrupted just as Howard got finished telling Bainbridge about his 'stupid candyfloss hair and stupid pointing fingers and stupid deep baritone.' Vince pressed the wet towel against Howard's neck.

Howard looked up at him. "All right, Vince. When'd you get here? Is that the new uniform?"

"Yes," Vince said. He shook the pills out of the bottle. "Take these."

"What are they?"

"They're for your head. You asked for them."

"I did?" Howard frowned at the paracetamol. "My head's sore today. I think it's Techno Mouse again."

"Yes," Vince said, and sat back down on the sofa. _A &E, A&E, A&E._ "Take them, you'll feel better."

"Right," Howard said, and swallowed the pills with about half the Lucozade. "You're my best mate, Vince. You're the best apprentice a man could ever have."

"Thanks," Vince said. "Want to lie down for a minute? We've got time."

"Yeah," Howard said. He lay back on the sofa, fingers wrapped around Vince's wrist. "Don't let them push you around, Vince. Tell them they'll have to deal with me. I'll come at them like a beam, like a ray –"

"I'll tell them you'll come at them like all the things," Vince said. "Go back to sleep now."

"I'm tired," Howard agreed, and promptly fell asleep against Vince's leg. Vince stayed awake.

The fever broke what seemed like an agonizingly long time later; one minute Howard was completely unconscious and the next minute he was pouring sweat and sitting up, looking confused but clear-eyed. "Vince. Hello."

"Awright, Howard," Vince said. "Feeling better?"

"I think so," Howard said cautiously. "Lester – I missed the gig, didn't I?"

"Yeah," Vince said, because there was no point in lying.

"Oh," Howard said. His shoulders slumped. "I thought something like this would happen."

"C'mon, Howard."

"No, it's all right," Howard said. "Elusive Lady Fame. The more you chase her, the more she punches you in the face. Perhaps it was meant to be. A solitary genius, toiling away for the sheer love of his craft…"

"The solitary genius needs a wash," Vince said. "You're a bit manky, if you don't mind me saying so."

Howard looked down at his sweat-soaked rollneck. "Yeah, all right."

"Need some help?"

Howard held a silent debate with himself. "A little," he finally admitted.

"Right, come on then," Vince said and stood up, slinging Howard's arm around his shoulders.

"Wait," Howard said. "You probably need about two hours before you're presentable for your trashy Camden party. I'll have a bath when you're done."

"Don't worry about it." Vince carefully steered Howard into the bathroom and turned on the hot water, letting Howard rest on the closed toilet seat.

"What do you mean, don't worry about it? Is the unwashed tramp look a trend now?"

"The party already happened, Howard." Vince peeled the soaked rollneck up over Howard's head.

"Really? How was it?"

"I don't know, I didn't go."

Howard blinked at him. "What?"

"I didn't go." Vince tested the water and then turned off the taps. "This seems okay. Help me with your trousers, will you?"

Howard tugged his pajama bottoms off, looking confused. "But you were looking forward to it."

"You had mutant alien flu. I didn't want you boiling your brains when I was gone. Get in, it should be warm enough."

"But that was my own fault."

"I can't help it if you choose to fool around with demonic jazz forces," Vince said. Howard was sitting in the tub, still looking baffled. Vince scooped up the rollneck and pajamas. "I'll just take these away and have them burnt, shall I? I'll get you some decent pajamas."

He threw the pajama bottoms in the laundry hamper and took the opportunity to throw out the orange monstrosity. He went into Howard's room and found the blue and white stripe pajamas, worn soft and still smelling of detergent. Satisfied, he went back into the bathroom with them.

Howard looked miserable. He was staring at the bar of soap in his hand like he was asking it for answers.

"What's the matter?" Vince said. "Water too hot? Not hot enough?" He knelt by the side of the tub and tested the water. "Howard?"

Howard didn't look at him. "You're going to get ill."

"What, now?"

"Not now. But soon. You spent all this time here and now you're going to feel horrible and you didn't even get to go to your party because of me and you really wanted to go and I ruined it like I ruin everything."

"Howard," Vince said. Howard was still staring somewhere off in hyperspace. "Howard, I _wanted_ to stay."

"I don't –" Howard's shoulders slumped. Vince splashed some water on his head to distract him. He grabbed the shampoo while he was at and began rubbing it through Howard's hair.

"Quit it," Howard said, not moving.

"You know what I'm really looking forward to?"

"No."

"Being ill."

Howard blinked. "What?"

"It's going to be genius. I've got this new pair of silk pajamas I've been wanting to wear. What better excuse than being ill? Head down."

Howard lowered his head into the water and Vince rubbed it clean. After he'd gotten the conditioner in and rinsed it out, he continued, "And then you can make me that soup I like. The one with all the ingredients I can't remember. I'll watch whatever I want on telly. And I'm planning on making you carry me from room to room. My own personal Northern stallion."

"Something's wrong with your head."

"C'mon, it's a genius plan. I should have thought of it sooner."

Howard's mouth quirked. "Well, I'm glad I could pave the way."

"Good."

"Vince?"

"Yeah?"

Howard looked at his hands. Very softly, he said, "Thank you for looking after me."

It was hard for Howard to put himself out there. He always expected rejection, still, even from Vince. Vince put his arms around Howard's shoulders and hooked his chin over the top of Howard's head. Howard let out a shuddery breath and turned his face against Vince's neck.

Vince could have stayed like that for a very long time, but he could feel Howard starting to shiver. He might not have been out of his head with fever anymore, but he still wasn't quite himself.

"C'mon, plague boy, out you get," Vince said. He helped Howard out of the tub, drained the water, toweled him off and handed him the pajamas. "Want to go back to sleep for a while and I'll go pick up a takeaway?"

Howard looked up from buttoning his shirt. "Chicken bhuna?" he said hopefully.

"Chicken bhuna and rice and anything else you want, Howard."

"Yeah," Howard said. "Yeah, all right."

Vince went and picked up the food. When he came back he took the containers and the television into Howard's room and set everything up by the bed before touching Howard's shoulder to wake him.

When they turned on the television, the first thing they both saw was a news report, saying, "Chaos erupted in Camden after American avant garde jazz collective the Rusty Bathtub Combo crashed the Party or Wotever…"

Howard dropped his fork. "What."

The screen cut to shaky handheld camera footage from the Party or Wotever. Trendily dressed people ran and screamed as a man in a pink suit played screeching saxophone and the other members of the group took turns swinging heavy sticks at a man tied to a stake in the middle of the room. The man at the stake, a heavyset fellow in a blue safari suit, sounded unmistakably like Bob Fossil, screaming, "Oh! Ow! Yipe! A little to the left! Wow!"

Howard and Vince both stared at the television. Finally Howard turned it off. "I think," he said, "that it's safe to say we both dodged a bullet there."

"Yeah," Vince said. "Should we ever speak of this again?"

"No, I don't think so."

"Fair enough," Vince said, and curled around Howard's back.


End file.
